


pretty

by wastelandzbaby



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Character Study, Dark, Denial of Feelings, Drabble, Emotional Hurt, Episode: s02e05 Same Stitch, F/M, False Identity, God Complex, Identity, Implied Sexual Content, Love, Love/Hate, M/M, Makeup, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, No Fluff, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV John, POV Joker (DCU), POV Third Person, Pet Names, Present Tense, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Secret Identity, Tags Are Hard, Unhealthy Relationships, Unresolved Tension, Villian Route (Telltale), and lack thereof, i don't plan on demonising john's mental illness, john doesn't love harley but he thinks he does, knowledge of telltale is appreciated but not strictly needed, might continue if anyone likes this, read the notes if those tags worry you at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 17:36:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20196097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastelandzbaby/pseuds/wastelandzbaby
Summary: Enemy, friend - what’s the difference? Bruce still wears his mask, still lies, still holds him at arm’s length. This time, the hand at the end of that arm itches to curl its fingers around Joker’s throat - but is that really so different? Hadn’t Bruce always wanted that?





	pretty

**Author's Note:**

> if any of you are worrying about the mental illness tags, given that this fic is dark, from joker's pov, etc: i don't intend to demonise any mental illnesses during this fic. it's all projection. don't worry!  
(it's also a little more intense than i'm used to writing, so apologies if anything's a little off.)
> 
> WARNINGS:  
\- joker & harley's relationship is implied to be abusive/unhealthy (from harley's end, as it is during telltale canon). it isn't at the forefront and wasn't the intended point of this, but it's there.  
\- it's also implied to be unrequited (or just straight-up fake, depending on how you see harley's perspective).  
\- joker's general mental fuckery gets a little intense at times (most notably, the feeling of being a god/invincible). i know for a fact that some people experience this irl (as i do myself) and find no problem with you backing out if it gets too much for you.  
\- general canon content from the villain route (the first gas scene).  
\- some sexual implications  
\- a lot of bruce bashing (i love the guy - so does john - but this was never meant to be a good fic for him. i have a lot of more bruce-appreciative fics, if that's more up your alley).  
\- religious imagery (joker's god complex, referring to bruce as if he's a follower)
> 
> despite all this, please understand that this fic is pretty out of the ordinary for me, and was just me having a bit of fun with more fucked up concepts/making joker a full-on villain for once. it's a lot meaner and darker than i usually write john (or even joker in general) and has very little actual romantic content, despite my adoration for their dumb dorky fluff.

John looks pretty, with Harley’s lipstick smeared over his lips. He isn’t sure how he feels about the application - her face pressed against his, with a force that felt far from loving, that balanced precariously on the line between unfamiliar and uncomfortable - but he loves how it looks nonetheless.

It’s far too smeared to look proper on his face, after the roughness of their kiss and the submersion that closely followed, but John has a small collection of cosmetics in a little bag under his bed. It’s absolutely nothing compared to Harley’s vanity full of palettes, but the colours are bright and pretty, and he knows for a fact he has the same shade.

He swipes it on quickly, neatly, and marvels at himself in the mirror - and then he gets carried away, painting at his face like it’s a picture, smudges of pink and magenta and red building around his eyes, making him look almost devilish.

“Hurry it up in there, Puddin’-” Harley pauses in the doorway, eyebrow raising at the sight of her partner. He’s still in that old dress shirt, soaking wet from the dip, and his clothes cling to him uncomfortably; his hair’s still a little dull, brownish roots under faded green dye; and yet Harley’s face pulls into a smirk, and she crosses her arms across her chest.

“Well well well, don’tcha look pretty, Pud?” He doesn’t quite blush - he’s never been able to - but she can tell he’s in the mood to, from the downward tilt of his face and the shy smile. “C’mon, baby, pack up the rest’a yer things, and we can finish this makeover of yours later.”

He nods, scoops his supplies into his ratty old backpack, and follows her out of the door.

* * *

He dyes his hair again, when they finally find somewhere decent to hide from the cops (and Bruce, the little hurt voice in the back of his head mutters). It’s just as vibrant as it always is when he redyes it, and yet it stands out even brighter against the cacophony of colours painted onto his face.

Harley cuts it and styles it for him, and he sneaks into a store that night and steals himself an outfit. It’s bright and chaotic, fitted and fitting all at once - and he looks even prettier wearing it, staring back at himself from the store’s tall mirrors.

* * *

The elation has him feeling like a god. He doesn’t know what caused it, but there’s a buzz under his skin that has him fidgeting, a sense of invincibility that holds his head high.

He knows, distantly, that it won’t last long, it never does; he knows it’ll seep out of him eventually, and leave him feeling lower than he had before. Harley knows that, too, and she stops him from thinking of it, keeping him forever on his toes.

She’s taking advantage of his sudden drive and optimism. She’s looking at his invincibility, his godliness, for what it is, and pouring him into a mould. He knows this, and yet he lets her continue - being regular is not worth the fight, and so he lets her drive him into her absurdity.

* * *

“Joker,” he decides one night. Harley’s lay over him, her face in his neck, and she hums appreciatively at his voice, almost purring. He’s not quite comfortable under her, but the feeling of her hot breath against his neck brings back memories of Arkham’s fuzzy lights, and so he relaxes beneath her nonetheless.

“It suits you, baby,” her voice is little more than a mutter. He ignores the way his heart flinches, and rubs circles into her back.

* * *

Bruce isn’t wearing Joker’s favourite suit when he sees him. His knuckles are stretched white, and a little bruised, and he’s standing as if cornered, although all the scary men with guns - Joker’s scary men with guns - are on the very opposite end of the room.

He can feel Bruce’s eyes follow him as he steps into the room, and strides confidently onto the meeting table. They rake over him with an urgent mixture of guilt and spite, and Joker can’t help but writhe a little when he meets his gaze - Bruce’s beautiful blue eyes are painful in their intensity, burning with hatred and sharpened by fear. To have them make their way over his body feels almost intimate, almost sinful; he feels exposed, despite his layers of clothing, and feels his grin widen because of it.

He’s never felt like more of a god than he does in this moment, Bruce glaring up at him as if he’d been damned to hell. What good is a god without followers to pray to him?

And so he forces the mask onto Bruce’s face (it’s not as if the concept is new to him - his pretty, pretty face is always obscured by some kind of mask, no matter how much he may deny it), holds him against the table, and talks.

It’s easier than he’d ever thought, standing above his idol, talking down to him as if he’s just another henchman. The image of Bruce on his knees springs to mind - in a church, at a shrine, in tears, with a smile, for his Joker - and he can’t help the purr that works its way into his voice.

(He hates Bruce. He hates him so very, very much; but love and hate have always been the same, and so his heart swells for him, for his sharp eyes and dark stare.)

“Stop me, Bruce,” he finds himself purring, leaning down to meet the billionaire’s angry eyes. “Be my best enemy.”

(Enemy, friend - what’s the difference? Bruce still wears his mask, still lies, still holds him at arm’s length. This time, the hand at the end of that arm itches to curl its fingers around Joker’s throat - but is that really so different? Hadn’t Bruce always wanted that?)

Those pretty blue eyes that Joker watches suddenly turn stormy, sad; Bruce’s jaw unclenches under his mask. “It doesn’t have to be this way,” he insists, breathy and quiet, voice full of the same sorrow. “We don’t have to be enemies.”

All the lovely hatred in Joker’s heart couldn’t prepare him for the way anger burns; his grip on Bruce’s skull tightens, and he scowls down at him through the mask, eyes wide and fiery. “Do you think I’m an idiot, Bruce? You and I both know,” no more purring, only a dark growl, “that’s all that’s left for us, after what I’ve done.”

(What he’s done, indeed; he can barely see Brucie’s darling face through the thick mustard-coloured smoke flooding the room. It’s almost sorrowful, something so nice hidden behind such a disgusting wall - how fitting, for a man who hides aggression behind perfect smiles.)

The only other man left alive - one of Joker’s newest, cockiest men - chokes and sputters behind him. Joker doesn’t need to turn around to know what’s happened; Harley’s melodic lilt of “Toughen up, little canary,” is enough explanation.

He’s already forgotten his anger, by the time Harley hurries him out of the room; he looks back at his billionaire bat and promises him fun, promises him hatred. He doesn’t watch as Harley strikes him, and doesn’t check if he’s still breathing afterwards.

Perhaps it will be better for both of them if he isn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> ok now i'm gonna go write fluffy post-vigilante oneshots and cry a little  
i rated this mature jic, but feel free to suggest a different rating if you think it's wrong


End file.
